No Son of Mine
by Sacrilegious
Summary: Realizing one is gay is never easy, no matter who you are. And for Pierre, a young, overconfident food critic, accepting it would go against everything his father had ever taught him - and everything he himself believes in.
1. Denial

**WARNING: This chapter contains some content and language that may be considered inappropriate for younger readers. Following chapters may contain content that is suggestive or sexual in nature. If you are uncomfortable with this, I advise you to seek entertainment elsewhere.  
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_Author's Note ~_

_ 'Thank you for taking the time to read this, my first story to be published here. I encourage you to review and supply constructive criticism, good or bad, being I am not used to writing fan fiction. I have written many original stories before but this is one of my first works to include the ideas and characters of another._

_ The protagonist is Pierre, an overconfident, slightly snobbish food critic. This story is about realizing that one is gay - about dealing with the denial, shock, depression, and (sadly, in only a few cases) eventual acceptance that comes with it. I'm not going to lie and say this all came out of my imagination; most of the events and dialogue - sometimes down to the exact quote - came from my own experiences, what I went through in a similar period in my life. Though there may be some sexual material in later chapters, I assure you that I only included it to portray realistically what a person goes through in times like this.  
_

_This story is more for myself than anyone else. I hope you enjoy it - or not. In the end, you are the only one that can make that decision.'_

_ **~Tobi**_

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Jerking violently awake and smacking his hand painfully on the nightstand, Pierre uttered a sharp cry, followed by a few quick labored breaths. Sweat beaded his forehead and chest, causing his pale skin to glisten in the moonlight that streamed through the window above his bed. His eyes were rimmed with tears as he brought his slightly bleeding hand up to his mouth to suck on it. He had hit the corner just right, tearing a small gash on one of the fingers. He lay back down with a thud, blonde hair matted with the sweat on his neck and face. _'That didn't just happen... not again,'_ he thought, closing his eyes as relief washed over him. _'It was just a dream.'_ A chill spread through his entire body, and he sat back up the pull the drapes over the window before laying back down. Pulling the covers over his head, he couldn't help but think, _'But it had felt so real...'_

He began to shudder uncontrollably, and wiped desperately at his eyes. Why was he having these feelings? He hadn't had a dream like this since he was fourteen... Did Natalie have anything to do with it? Burying his head in his pillow, his mind drifted back to the starry night festival last week.

Natalie had knocked on his door the day before, asking if he had a date - he had shifted from foot to foot, his mind racing, trying to think of possible excuses. Before he could answer, she had said, "Great, I'll be here at seven!" and ran back home, eyes sparkling. As if that hadn't been bad enough, as she was leaving his house after their dinner she had leaned in close to him, eyes closed. Instead of kissing her as she expected him to do, Pierre stammered something about having to get back to work and slammed the door in her face. Afterward he slumped with his back against the door and slid to the floor, hands covering his face. She had been giving him all the signals, but why didn't he feel anything towards them? Her hand on his made him jerk back. Her leg touching his almost made him want to retch. There was no way this could be normal for a man his age. Hell, most guys his age were chasing any girl that came their way.

Maybe he'd just been alone too long. Yeah. He was focusing too hard on his cooking, that was all. All he needed to do was give it a rest; take a break for a week or so. Then it should be all better. Yeah. He wouldn't have to worry...

Why was he doubting all this? He was trying his hardest to persuade himself that there was nothing wrong with him, that he was perfectly normal. Deep down, he knew he was lying to himself.

_____________

Pierre thought back to when he was in seventh grade, attending a top-notch private school to "sharpen his already hereditary intellect", as his father used to say. He remembered Ryan... his best friend and fellow classmate, with his soft green eyes and short, spiked red hair. Not long after he met Ryan he had the dream. One not too different than the one that was plaguing him right then.

In the dream, they were both sitting on Ryan's bed, laughing about something a girl in their class had worn to school a few days before and playing on Ryan's new Playstation. Suddenly, the room went dark and the system shut down. A power-out. "Damnit," Ryan muttered, putting down his controller and grimacing at the blank television. "What are the odds of this happening ten minutes after I turn the damn thing on?" Pierre was fighting back laughter, his friend's irritated expression nearly cracking him up. Ryan had a tendency to get angry easily, then get over it almost as fast. True to his nature, Ryan began laughing too, and smacked Pierre playfully on the shoulder, knocking him onto his back.

He fell over himself laughing so hard, and the two of them rolled around on the bed, neither of them sure what they were even laughing about. Pierre accidentally elbowed Ryan in the ribs, and before long that turned into an all-out wrestling match. After a few minutes Pierre rolled off the bed and, not willing to let go, pulled Ryan down as well. After a few more moments of chuckling, the room grew silent. Ryan was lying on top of Pierre, their chests pressed together, each feeling the warmth of the other's breath on their neck. They stared into each-other's eyes, and Pierre felt an odd, warm sensation spread through his entire body. The rest happened so fast; Ryan's lips pressed up against his, their hands exploring each other's bodies. Up until the point where Pierre began to fell an unpleasant tightening in his pants that made him squirm uncomfortably. His next breath shuddered out of him as he looked down and noticed a bulge between his legs.

It was at this moment that he remembered waking up, sweating and panting, just like that night. He lifted up the covers to see that the unusual bulge in his pants hadn't been just a dream; he had gotten his first "morning wood," as some of the older boys in his class would have called it. Of course, since no one had ever taken the time to explain such things to young Pierre, he proceeded to panic and called for Sebastian, the family servant. "Yes, Master Pierre?" called the familiar voice from the doorway. Pierre began to blurt out that he had woken up with it, not mentioning the dream. The look on Sebastian's face almost made him want to laugh even in a time like this. "In a moment, Master Pierre - I'm off to get your father. I feel he should be the one to explain such things to you."

His father explained it, all right. In fact, went into such detail that Pierre began to squirm around in bed, getting more and more nauseous the more his father talked. Surprisingly, his father asked him about the dream. As Pierre opened his mouth, his father cut him off, saying, "Now now, I guess you don't have to explain if you don't want to. It's perfectly normal for a young boy to have dreams about girls," He laughed, and clapped his son on the back. "Now get back to sleep. You still have about two and a half hours before you have to get up, might as well use it. Sounds like you've had quite the night as is, hah!"

As his father closed the door behind him, Pierre thought, _'Girls?'_

Confused, he brought the question up at breakfast. His mother dropped her fork and uttered a small cry, before regaining her composure and excusing herself. His father stared wide-eyed at his son, mouth slightly agape, the hand clenching his spook shaking uncontrollably. "What?"

Pierre bit his lip and looked down. He knew he shouldn't have said anything.

_"What!?"_

His father stood up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before grabbing young Pierre by the hair and dragging him upstairs to his study. Once there, he sat down in his patent leather reading chair and forced Pierre to stand before him, scared and whimpering. A hand on each of his son's shoulders, he spat, "What did you just say, boy?" When he didn't answer, he shook him violently. "I asked you a question!"

"I said R-Ryan was in my dream, n-not any g-"

His father shook him again, harder this time. "Listen to me!" he shouted, then bit his lip and lowered his voice, moisture collecting in the corners of his eyes. "Listen to me... it doesn't matter what or who you dreamed of, son. We are not going to talk about this ever again. We are not going to tell anyone about this, okay?" A stray tear broke free and rolled down his cheek. "Okay, son?"

Pierre nodded, the sight of his father crying forcing him to burst into tears himself. He had done something horribly, horribly wrong - it was written all over his father's face, and would forever be burned into his memory. He started sobbing, and his father pulled him in close, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug. He relaxed his hold, and gave his son a kiss on the forehead - the only time Pierre could ever recall his father kissing him. "I'm sorry, dad, I-I-I'm sorry-" he sniveled through the tears.

"It's okay son..." he said softly. "I-I... I love you. Don't you ever forget that. Every time you feel... these things towards another m-m-m-m..." he sighed, and looked away. "another man, just do whatever you can to ignore them. They're unholy. They're unholy, and they'll be the end of you. No son of mine is gonna be a damn fag, okay son?"

Pierre looked up, two matching pairs of purple eyes gazing into one another. "I promise."

_____________

He was crying now, the tears rolling silently down his face. He rolled over in bed and covered his head with the pillow, burying his face in the sheet. His tears turned into whimpers, and those into sobs that wracked his entire body. Sobbing uncontrollably now, he screamed into his pillow and banged his hurt hand against the headboard, tearing the cut open further. A thin trail of blood traveled down the length of his arm, cutting a red path through the pale white of his skin and oozing onto the sheet. He was determined to do anything - _anything_ - to keep his mind off of all this. If he couldn't reason with it, he would block it out of his mind and refuse to think about it. He was Pierre, his father's son. And he would never do anything to disgrace him.

He would never do anything to hurt him like that again.

_'I am not a fag.'_

**"I am not a fag!"**

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**_'Well, I hope you liked it. The next chapter will be much longer, so it might take a week or two... I dunno. I'm not really happy with this one. I think its a little too short and melodramatic, and I really haven't focused on denial so much as Pierre's past. There will be at least four chapters including this one, each one focusing on a different emotion as he goes through this. I may or may not make it longer, depending on how lazy I am. Heh.'_

_**~Tobi**  
_


	2. Shock

_Authors Note -_

_'I'm so sorry for making you wait this long for another chapter; I won't go into the details, but my bf and I went through a rather rough patch in our relationship and I have unable to continue it. Thank you for your patience. On another note, I've decided to write this chapter in first-person, just to experiment. Let me know if you like it, or if I should go back to writing in third-person. Myself, I'm neutral.'_

_**~Tobi**_

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That's it. I am officially a closet case.

It's been three weeks now since the second Dream, and my mind keeps turning back to it, keeps playing that same movie over and over in my head. It would have been a helluva lot easier to forget if I had known the person in it. No, it had to be some totally random person. That kept my mind wandering back to it whenever I was cooking, foraging, bathing - basically, no matter what I was doing, I was thinking about it. Was I sure I didn't know him? Was he an old schoolmate? Some random guy who visited the island once, who I just happened to notice while out walking? Someone I'd seen on TV? No, I don't watch TV ...wow, that really doesn't help at all.

There I go again. My mind's racing now, still trying to figure this out. Trying to find the identity of someone who more than likely doesn't exist. I pull open the drawer to my nightstand and take out a bottle of Xanax - the anxiety medicine I've been taking since I was thirteen. Since I had my first Dream. Apparently, it's supposed to help slow my mind down, stop me from having a panic attack over every petty little problem that gets thrown my way. Sadly, it doesn't work that well. I place one pill on my tongue and swallow it without water. By now, I don't even need any. My throat just lets it slide down without a problem. I twist the cap back onto the bottle and leave it on the nightstand. you know, in case I need some more later - which I most likely will. Following the Xanax is some Prozac, which I started taking a little over a year after the Dream. I haven't taken any lately, which might explain why I'm not as hyper and peppy as usual. It should kick in soon, maybe an hour or so. It always takes about a week before I feel the full effect though, and for that I have to keep taking it. Sometimes I wonder if people think I'm just naturally ditzy and animated. Ah well.

I hide the bottles behind the lamp on my nightstand, hoping that no one sees them, that no one finds out I'm such a pill head, though it really should be obvious. Sometimes after I stop taking them for a while, I look back at how insanely hyper I was and can't figure out why people don't just avoid me.

After an hour or so I start to feel better. I stop thinking about the Dream and turn on the burner on my stove. It's raining, and I don't feel like going outside. I'll just stay inside and perfect my Shiitake à la Vin today - last time I splashed in too much wine and the whole thing tasted like Pinot Noir. Putting a skillet over the burner, I open the fridge and pull out some of the shitake mushrooms I had stored away. I place a few gently onto the skillet and they begin to sizzle, a decadent aroma starting to emanate from the stove. After a few minutes of stirring them around I pulled down the rest of the Pinot Noir from the wine rack, pulling out the cork and setting it aside.

I cut up some chives and green onions, throwing them into the skillet followed with a careful splash of wine, then shake it all up to mix the flavors. The scents begin to the melt together, and before I know it my eyes are closed and I'm halfway between sleep and consciousness. Someone knocks on the door and I jump violently, knocking the skillet off the stove. It hits the floors with a clang and sends hot food and wine flying everywhere, some of which gets on my coat. I utter a startled cry and leap back, hitting my head on the wine rack and cracking open a couple bottles. As wine starts pouring onto the counter I begin to feverishly pull out the broken bottles, wrapping them in dish towels and putting them in the sink.

"Hey Wonka, is everything alright in there?"

'Wonka.' That has to be Mark.

"Just peachy," I manage to shout through clenched teeth. The hot wine had seeped through my coat and sweater and was now burning my skin. I'm wiping down the counter as Mark lets himself in. He stops a few feet away from me and grins.

"Having some trouble?"

I don't even dignify his remark with an answer. Temporarily setting the wine-stained dish towel aside, I grab another towel and get down on my knees to wipe up some of the spilled ingredients.

Mark bends over, that grin still plastered across his face. "Hey, I wanted to ask you a favor." he says. I look up, but he's already moved over the sink and is grabbing a few paper towels. Instead of helping, though, he just stands there inspecting the wallpaper. My gaze rises up from the floor and for a moments is fixed on a less-then-decent area of his body. Okay, who am I kidding, I'm staring at his ass. Now that I think about it, I've always done this when I was around another man. I just didn't realize it... what the hell am I doing? I shake my head and focus on the floor. Mark is dating Chelsea. I rather doubt he'd appreciate me staring at him like that. He finally turns back around and looks down at me. "I was wondering if you'd mind fixing a romantic dinner for-"

My heart stops. I can feel my forehead breaking out in sweat.

"-me and Chels."

I'm an idiot. "Uh-um, yeah... sure..." I mutter before I realize what I'm saying. "Wait, I mea-"

Before I can finish he rushes out the door shouting, "Thanks man, I'll be over sometime tomorrow to tell you when."

I feel like bashing my head against the cabinet for being so hopeless, but instead I finish cleaning up and as I'm washing my hands, I can't seem to recall cooking a single successful dish in almost a month.

I'm in the process of removing my clothes to wash the mushroom-and-wine scent off them, and it hits me; I'm not what I thought I was. I start to realize that the sole reason I devoted myself to my cooking as much as I did, was because I needed something to keep my mind off... that. When I'm in the process of preparing a dish or honing my culinary skills, my mind is blank. Nothing gets in.

But whenever I'm laying in bed, alone (as I always have,) I have to squeeze my eyes shut and turn on some Mozart - to keep my mind off something that I don't even know about. I make up for the confusion with acting on impulse. Not giving myself time to think about anything.

And Natalie... she likes me. She really, really likes me. I can't keep putting her off like this without telling her. She probably thinks that I find her ugly and boring, but I don't. I just don't like the sexual tension that emanates from her, taunting and laughing at me, screaming, _'You don't feel it, do ya, queer? Nope nope ya don't ya don't ya don-'_

What in the bloody hell was that - I think I just screamed. My ears are ringing and my throat is sore. I realize that my hands were clenching onto the counter and pull them away, bleeding and throbbing. I'm panting, my now bare chest heaving up and down rapidly. It was my father's voice, but I know he would never say that... Father loves me. Father loves me. Father loves me. Father wouldn't spend over a hundred thousand dollars to educate something he hated. Father loves me. Father loved me enough to keep an eye on me when I had friends over, to listen to my phone calls, to read my notes, to ask me questions.

I'm starting to think that, maybe, Father was a little obsessed.

Somehow, I start to feel better. I put on another set of clothes, planning on washing the dirty ones later, and walk out the door. As I step outside I immediately notice how cold its gotten. Just how long has it been since I've been outside? Nevertheless, I shrug it off and head towards the bridge to the jungle. I'm running low on ingredients anyway.

After a few minutes of half-searching half-attempting-to-clear-my-mind-but-failing I hear a rustling in the tree above me. I jump and look up, but can't see through the thick canopy. I start to squint and something jumps out, landing barely an inch away from me and nearly giving me a heart attack. Taking a few hurried steps back, I stumble over a rock and fall, which, to be frank, kind of pisses me off. Yet the Prozac keeps me from getting too angry and I stand up, dusting myself off.

I look up, getting ready to apologize for being so clumsy, then see that its Shea. I used to refer to him only as The Savage, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that thinking lower of him because of how he lives would be the same as people hating me because of my... choices.

"Sorry. No mean scare you. Snake close."

I look down at Shea's feet; he had landed on the back of some kind of green snake, which was still writhing around despite of its broken back. I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I hadn't noticed it a couple feet away from where I had been kneeling down. After staring at its twitching, convulsing form for a few more seconds I start to look up, but can't seem to raise my gaze above his chest. "You like Shea cl... cl..." he says, then rubs his head, as if he couldn't think of the word. "clo..."

"Clothes?"

"Yes! Clothes!" he says, looking rather proud of himself. "You like Shea clothes?"

_'He thinks that I'm admiring his clothing...'_ I look up. "Yeah... yes, I do."

"Make them. Take long time. Make shoes and food out of snake, too. Shea show you how?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulls out a small knife and lops the snake's head off, then pulls the skin off like a glove. "Eat like this." He offers it to me, and I just shake my head.

"Umm... you aren't going to cook it?"

"No, no burn it."

I shrug, and give up. "Thank you for... for killing it for me. Is it, is it poisonous?"

"Yes, snake bite you, you get sick. Throw up. No eat. Then die."

I start to feel nauseous even thinking about it. "I'm, I'm sorry, I have to go-"

Shea suddenly grabs my wrist and holds it up, looking at it. His touch sends an electric wave through the upper half of my body and I shudder. Not out of fear, but of something else. Something I can't quite describe. "Your hands bleeding, Wonka." I had totally forgotten about that. Man, I'm really not all there today...

"W-Wonka?" _'Damn it, Mark! He doesn't even know my real name!'_

Ignoring my question, he starts to pull me towards his hut, saying, "Hands bleeding, no good. Start turn red, then purple, then make scar. No good." I resist at first, but me being so small I doubt if he even feels me trying to break away. He pushes the hut door open and drags me inside, letting me go as the door shuts behind me. "Wait, Shea get salve. Sit down."

Obediently, I sit on one of the cushions and inspect my palms. Indeed, they are a bit discolored now, but somehow I could really care less. Shea sits next to me with a bowl that contains some kind of greenish-white paste, and begins to slather it on my palms. I cry out and clench my fists immediately, not expecting it to burn so. "No scream, wake Wada."

Too late. I can see Wada sitting up and groaning, rubbing his head. "Hands bleeding, I help," Shea says, and pries my fists open to continue applying the salve. His blunt strength is positively enormous for someone his size; at least compared to mine, anyway. For some reason I find his strength and forcefulness really... er, arousing. I mentally talk myself down, and try to control myself. I had clenched my eyes shut, and begin to open them as the pain fades. Wada is staring at me intensely, as if he was trying to decide something. I sense that Shea had stopped moving, and as I look at him I see that he is staring at Wada. "Wada?" he says, looking puzzled.

Wada continues to stare at me for a few more moments then asks Shea, "Shea, Wonka your mate?"

I literally choke on air. I pitch forward and start to cough violently, saliva getting caught in my throat and preventing me from breathing. Shea lets out a strangled cry and starts beating on my back, which only makes the entire situation worse. In more than one way. After I finally get over my fit, I let out a few ragged breaths and sit back up, breathing heavily. "I, uh... *pant, pant,* what do you... mean?"

Shea's face is bright red, and he's glaring at Wada. "Wada, no tell!" he says.

"Wh-what now? Huh? **_What is going on?_**"

Wada laughs, "Shea say you small, pretty, like woman,"

Wow, I look like a woman. That really makes me feel much better. I just now notice that Shea is wrapping my hands in some type on cloth, and that electric tingling feeling returns.

"Shea say you keep home clean, cook food, make good mate,"

Shea's face is emanating heat now, he is blushing so badly. I start to feel my own face heat up. "But I'm a... a..."

"I know, you man, you no have Shea babies. I say that silly, Shea say no, say you still good mate."

An image of myself being pregnant flashes through my mind and almost makes me faint. Indeed, I am feeling a bit light-headed. This is a lot to take in - The Savage wants me as a 'mate'? What?

Shea's biting his bottom lip nervously, looking around, trying to avoid my gaze. "Wonka," he says finally, "You be Shea mate?" I don't answer at first, just stare at him, my jaw dropped. "Shea good at hunting, good at finding food, Shea make lots of stuff, see, make this," he says, holding up a rather finely-crafted hunting spear. I'm in the middle of admiring it when he puts it down and continues. " - and Shea fast, make sure no snake bite you, and strong."

I just sit there, as the seconds tick by agonizingly slow. I'm not sure how long I'm there, but eventually I jump up and rush towards the door. "I'm sorry, I'll, I'll think about it." He doesn't follow me.

________________________

I'm in my boxers now, staring into my mirror. I run my hands down my sides, noticing the slight curve of my hips and how my legs taper down just so. My face doesn't have any sort of chiseled, or masculine look to it at all, and my bright pinkish-purple eyes have a sort of delicate beauty to them. Now that I really notice it, I could be mistaken for a woman at first glance.

Wada and Shea - they somehow knew about me before I did myself.

Natalie hasn't spoken to me in almost two weeks now, the longest ever since I've moved her.

Mark decided not to have me prepare dinner for Chelsea and himself, and has been avoiding me since. Did Shea blab?

How many people already know?

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_'Thank you again for reading, and I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know how this one (first person) compares to the last chapter (third person), because I'm not sure which one to write Chapter 3 in._

_This chapter was whipped up in only two days after I lost the original copy, so I know its not near as good as the second one. Sorry.'_

**_~Tobi_**


	3. Depression

_Author's Note-_

_'Well, at least it didn't take me forever to get this one up... I wrote it in first-person again, because I felt that it was easier for readers to relate to that way. Besides, I just like writing in first-person; its harder for me, therefore that makes me work harder to ensure that it comes out right. Anyway, this chapter contains a much higher amount of mature material than the last two, so... well, I'm not sure what else to say about it, but yeah. So if you don't like, don't read._

_Plus, this is a long, loooong chapter, about the length of ch. 1 and 2 combined. So be ready to sit there for a while.'_

_**~Tobi

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**_The alarm goes off, screeching loud enough to wake the dead and systematically causing my fist to crash down upon it. Again. Uttering a few more strangled cries before finally dying, the red numbers flicker feebly, then fade completely. I groan and roll over to face it, forcing my eyes open to see that I've finally killed it. A glance at the wall clock tells me that it's three-thirty in the afternoon - approximately ten hours after I normally get up. Considering the fact I've been mercilessly beating my innocent alarm clock every thirty minutes since then, its no wonder that it died.

I lay in bed for another few minutes, staring at the alarm and dreading having to actually get up and do something before finally heaving myself out of bed. It's not too long before I'm reminded of why I didn't want to get out of bed in the first place; the wet, sticky substance between my legs that has since dried to my boxers, causing everything to stick together. I stand up and rub my eyes, walking over to the sink. I turn the hot water on and feel the water flowing from the faucet until it starts to warm up, then wet the towel. After bracing myself, I pull back the front of my underwear and start cleaning, my eyes facing forward, looking away from it. The smell of sweat and semen eventually reaches me and I gag, throwing my free hand over my mouth and bending over the sink. Had I gotten up and cleaned it earlier it wouldn't have been so bad; but no, I had to wait and let it sit there, absorbing the sweat and making my whole situation worse.

After I'm done cleaning myself, I toss the towel into the sink, not caring about the dishes and cups already in there. The only attempt I make at being in any way hygienic is changing my boxers - which I throw at the hamper, and, of course, miss. I walk over to the nightstand and pull open the drawer, pushing aside the Xanax and Prozac which I I haven't been taking anyway, and pull out a small mirror. I tilt it in my hand so that I can see my face from an angle and take note of the dark circles beginning to form under my eyes. The whites themselves are red and distressed, making the light purple irises seem more maroon in color. _'My God, I look like I was drunk last night,'_ I think to myself before putting the mirror away with a sigh.

I throw on an old beige bathrobe that I had packed before I moved here (and never used) and opened the door, stepping outside to get the mail. I immediately regret not having put any shoes on as I step out onto ice and slip, falling hard on my ass and choking back a scream. I quickly scramble back inside and shut the door, shivering and swearing under my breath. Only I would be so ditzy as to go outside in a bathrobe without checking to see if there's _ice_ or not. I start to lean my back against the door when someone knocks on it, making me jump and cry out again. I jerk the door open, eyes narrowed and glaring, to see Mark looking at me cock-eyed with a grin on his face. "What was _that_?" he asked, referring to my slipping on the ice and busting my ass. I slam the door in his face and start to head over to my bed before turning around to go back and lock it. Figures. The second I go outside someone starts looking at me, making sure I never have a moment of peace outside my home. Its common knowledge that I'm hiding something now, god forbid anyone have the balls to just ask me what it is instead of showering me with dinner invitations (all of which slyly ask me to 'bring something') and compliments (fake ones). It's gotten to the point where, if someone actually asked me, I'd scream _'I'm a faggot!'_ at the top of my lungs, just to get them to shut the hell up. As far as I'm concerned, I'm dead to the world, and everyone in it.

"C'mon, Wonka, what's is wrong with you? You've been in there for two weeks."

Okay, maybe not Mark. New thought: If any _but_ Mark asked me, I would tell them.

"Shut the hell up and go away!" I yell at the door before taking off the robe and throwing it at the hamper. Missing again.

There's a few moments of silence, as if Mark couldn't wrap his brain around the fact that Pierre, the 'girly little frenchie' had just cursed at him. Finally, "What?"

Instead of dignifying his remark with an answer, I head over to the refrigerator and pull out a package of bacon; something I normally can't stand, but need whenever I'm stressing. I turn the burner on and throw and already greasy skillet on top of it. Cutting the package open I pull a thick slab of it out and throw it into the skillet, pulling the pieces apart with my fingers. As the temperature starts to rise and the bacon starts sizzling, and pull a fork out of the dish washer and start flipping them frantically. "Cook, goddamn it!" Some grease pops and catches me on the chest. I wince, and pull the skillet off, dumping its contents, grease and all, onto a plate and carry it over to my bed. Bacon is my one vice - thick, greasy, disgustingly fattening bacon. If I'm pissed off, I eat bacon. If I'm depressed, I eat bacon. If I lose something, I have to eat bacon before I look for it.

Ugh, I can just feel my arteries clogging and my skin breaking out, but its just so _good_. Any more stress and I'll end up like my uncle.

Around seven o'clock (and hours of tearing the house apart looking for fatty foods) there's another knock on the door. I refrain from screaming at the door again, and try to ignore it. Whoever it is knocks again, louder this time. I ignore them still. They knock again. I leap up from the bed and open the closet, tearing clothes out and throwing them on the floor as I look for my robe before remembering that it was one the ground next to the hamper. I pick it up and throw it on, answering the door and looking furious.

I open the door to find Natalie standing there, holding a bundle of mail. She takes one look at me and her smile fades, giving away to a worried, slightly fearful expression. "A-Are you okay?" she asks, her concern genuine. I can see her looking past me at the clothes and trash all over the floor. Her eyes snap back to me as she notices that I'm staring right at her, watching her stare at how disgusting my house is.

"No." I answer honestly. "Not really."

"Oh..." she looks down and around me, trying to avoid eye contact. "Well, I saw that your mailbox was full, and I figured that maybe you didn't have time to get it or something, and-"

Now she's just trying not to set me off. She knows my mailbox is right outside my door, and she knows that if I wanted to interact in any way with people, I probably would have got it. It's probably another excuse to talk to me. I remember that I should feel sorry for her, but at the moment I'm just feeling too apathetic. Sorry world, I don't give a shit right now. I need some 'me' time. "Yeah, thanks," I say, interrupting her and taking the mail.

She stops talking and bites her lip as I shut the door.

Bills, bills, overdue bills, junk mail, more overdue bills, and a letter from my parents. I sit down at the table and scatter the letters in front of me and try to open the letter, but can't get my fingernail under the flap. Eventually I end up biting the corner off and tearing it open with my finger. I pull out the letter, which is written on lavender scented paper with charcoal-gray ink, as usual. Only one page this time. Great. I only have to read one page of Father bragging about all the contests he's won, and the awards that he's gotten. I really can't believe that I used to act like that only two months ago. Nevertheless, I read the letter, which starts out with the usual _'We wish your presence here at home and hope that you are excelling in your training.'_ I read on in boredom as Father describes his recent trips to Paris and Japan, to judge various cooking tournaments. Towards the end, I stop breathing as I read, _'We are planning to come visit on December 23, through December 26, for the holidays. We hope that you are still the brilliant, talented boy you were when you left home!'_

_'Shit shit shit shit shit -' _I throw the letter down and scramble to pick up the house. I pick up all the clothes scattered across the floor, throwing some into the hamper and scrambling to put others on hooks and into the closet. Once done, I hurry to place all the dishes in the dishwasher, not bothering to check whether or not they are dirty. The sound of a dish shattering after my fingers slip and I drop it finally slows me down. _'You're going to be okay, Pierre, they're coming tomorrow, not today,'_ I desperately try to reassure myself, for fear that I might totally lose it before they even get here. _'You still have plenty of time to prepare, Pierre, plenty of time, don't rush don't rush don't rush -'_

My heart beating a million miles an hour I manage to control myself, and after filling the dishwasher I sit down at the table to sort out my mail, separating the bills and junk mail, etc. If I go to bed early, that will leave me less time to prepare tomorrow, while if I stay up all night, I'll be tires the next day and Father will berate me for not resting. Oh, decisions, decisions...

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Well, apparently going to bed early wasn't the best idea I've ever had. I wake up the next morning and have plenty of time to clean up, but I forgot about preparing a meal for them, and I'm still tired. So here I am, at noon, frantically tearing my hair out of my skull and trying to think of possible excuses when it hits me - Fuck it. Just fuck it. I didn't have time to do it because I was being a lazy son of a bitch and didn't check my mail, so what? I won't even get dressed. I'm not ready, they can come tomorrow.

My tough attitude lasts for about ten seconds, and melts away when I hear that dreaded knock. _'Already?' _I shudder uncontrollably, smooth out my robe, and walk over to the door. Oddly enough, I don't hear the usual bickering and arguing from the other side. I open the door and see why; it's Shea. As soon as I get ready to deal with my parents I find out its not them at all. Wow, God must really hate me.

"Umm... hello She-"

"Shea sorry about scaring you," he said, interrupting me in the middle of my sentence and not stopping. "No mean make you scared, Shea just like Wonka, Shea not know that Wonka afraid of Shea,"

I blink. "I - I'm not afraid of you, it's just..." I look at him. He looks so dejected. Well, this is it. Do I want to accept myself for who I am and start my first relationship as a gay man, or do I want to chicken out and risk the chance of either dying alone or marrying some random girl I can't stand just to keep people from finding out? My heart starts beating still faster, and I can't even think straight. My palms are sweating. I feel like slamming the door shut and curling into a ball to die, rather than face this. Am I going to ask Shea out and be happy, thus alienating myself from my family? Or am I going to reject him and all my other feelings and die a miserable, angry, yet respected old man? Happiness or respect? Alienation or acceptance? All that thinking about how I'd come out to the next person who asked me, I know I was just telling myself that to get my mind to shut the hell up. I was hiding out in my own house, barricading myself from the outside world so that I would never have to face this moment, but now it's right here in front of me and I have no idea what to do. I should have been thinking about it instead of acting like I already knew what I would do, like I was impervious to the heat-of-the-moment.

My mind still whirling, Shea looks at me, appearing genuinely concerned about how I'm doing. "Wonka's eyes red. Shea sorry, make it all better - come in?" Until after he said that, I hadn't noticed that I was crying, frustrated tears pouring out of my eyes and down my pale face. "Eyes all dark and crying, not good." he says when I don't answer him. "Sorry..."

I don't really know what just happened, but I just couldn't stand to see him like that, feeling guilty and nervous. Somehow, in some way, I managed to wrap my arms around his neck without realizing it and now I'm kissing him, my eyes closed and my chest pressed hard against the bottom of his. His breath at first is ragged and haltered, as if I frightened him, but he starts to relax and now I can feel his hands on my waist. I've never felt this _right_ before - it's as if everything I've ever done before this was a lie, and this is the first time I've ever been truthful to myself. I can taste my own tears as they continue to stream down my face but I'm not crying out of frustration anymore, but of remorse that I hadn't discovered this feeling until now. All those sappy love songs on the radio, and all those romance books I've read over the years finally start to make sense. They're not just mindless drivvle anymore, but genuine accounts of... this. This wonderful feeling. This glorious, real, wonder-

"Pierre! What in the name of God!?"

I hear whoever it is, but I'm reluctant to let this emotion go. I slowly pull away, looking up into Shea's black eyes - you know, I've always thought of his eyes as sharp and cunning, but now they seem soft. That aside, I look to my right, my hands sliding down from his neck, along his arms and eventually finding his hands and holding them gently. My heart freezes over and I can feel bile rising up in my throat as I - almost literally - see my life flash before my eyes.

"He - hello, F-Father..."

And yes, there they stand side-by-side, Mother with her long, seductively-curled strawberry-blonde hair and Father... just Father. The same purple eyes and blonde hair as his son, only blessed with the masculine physique of his sex.

For a while, they say nothing. They stand there staring at me, tears beginning to form around Mother's eyes as she visibly chokes back sobs. Father is shaking, his eyes glimmering and staring directly at me, then shifting towards my new-found lover. As his eyes rest on Shea they attain a furious quality, softening only when his gaze again is directed at me.

"Son... I thought we talked about this when you were a boy..." he says, simply and pointedly, as if he were reprimanding me. He is wearing that same stern, serious expression he always wore when catching me breaking the rules when I was a child."Now son, just get away from him and we'll forget this ever happened... okay?" he says softly, and as I make eye contact with him, I see that he's not mad; he looks hurt, and disappointed. Not in me, but in himself. I can tell by the way he is standing, arms crossed, frowning but his eyes aren't narrowed. The way he always has looked after doing something he was ashamed of. Shea's grip on my hands tightens, and I start to notice how intently he is glaring at Father, looking him directly in the eye, challenging him. Father walks over to Shea and I and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Come on son, let's go inside, we'll get through this -"

It's as if a wall has broken within me; a wall of oppression and fear that kept me in my place all these years, scaring me out of disobeying him. A wall that I always hid behind, trying to keep myself from having to face my true self. It was that place I always went to inside my head when I didn't want to face something, the home of my inner consciousness, but it's prison as well. I jerk my shoulder away violently, my eyes narrowed and lips forming a scowl. "No!" I yell at him, and take a few steps back, my right hand still grasping Shea's left. "No, I'm tired of you doing this! You don't want to accept that any son of yours could be anything other than what you expected, and you keep acting like its some kind of medical condition, something that I can just ignore!" He takes a few feeble steps back, eyes wide and staring at me. "Do you have any idea how much happier my childhood would have been if you would have just let me be myself? Do you? Do you?

"My entire life I've known this but I kept repressing it, kept telling myself that it'll be gone someday and I'll be just like you, dad, just like you, but I know I was lying to myself, and I knew then, too, but just couldn't let it be! If you don't want me as a son, then fine, it's not like I'm your only child. Go fawn over William, perfect, successful, _straight_ William, why don't you? Just leave me the hell alone!"

Did I really just say that, or was it a dream? It didn't feel real; it felt totally alien and weird, like I was daydreaming about it but thinking of something else at the same time. But I know it's real, because I can feel the warmth of Shea's hand in mine, and I can feel the sweat beading my forehead in spite of the cold. The cold... I just now start to realize how cold it is. Guess I was so wrapped up in the moment that I didn't notice it. My bare feet are bright red and stiff; I can't seem to move them, and some of the sweat around my face has frozen to my hair, forming tiny little disgusting sweat crystals. And then, all of a sudden, it's all black.

----------------------------------------------

I wake up and I'm in my bed, but the sheets and blanket are clean and orderly, unlike how I left them. My head is throbbing and I feel nauseous and light-headed. A quick glance around the room reveals that someone had picked up all the stray pieces of clothing and garbage, and even bothered to take out the trash. The smell of fried fish wafts my way, and I inhale deeply - I smell salt, butter, and fish but nothing else. Whoever is cooking it doesn't know much about what they are doing, apparently. A look towards the kitchen verifies my conclusion, being I see cooking utensils and ingredients scattered all over the place, and a very distressed-looking Shea sweating over the stove top. I look to see that he's not even using a skillet, but cooking it directly on the stove. Despite my aching head I can't help but utter a quiet laugh, and he looks back at me, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Pie-er awake!" he says gleefully.

I choose to ignore his horrid mispronunciation of my name for now and grin back at him weakly. He quickly grabs a plate and picks the fish up with his bare hands, hissing in pain but not letting go until it was safely on the dish and starts walking over to me, head held high. I get into a sitting position, my back against the headboard, and he places the plate delicately on my lap. The fish is scorched on the bottom and I can already tell that he used too much salt, but I choose not to ruin the moment by criticizing it. He sits down next to me and looks at the fish, then me. "Pie-er try Shea fish? First time Shea cook!"

Using my fingers I tear off a piece and put it in my mouth. It's not bad, but not good either. But the fact that he made it for me somehow makes it taste so much better than anything I've ever eaten before. "I love it," I say, and look up at him. He looks so proud, like a little kid after having his picture pinned up on the fridge.

"Sorry call you Wonka before, Shea know now you Pie-er-"

"You know what, just call me Wonka when we're alone. It'll be our little secret." I say. It makes me cringe whenever someone mispronounces my name, but I don't want to hurt his feelings.

His eyes light up. "Really? Shea get pet name too?"

How he knows what a 'pet name' is, I'll never know. "Umm..." I try to think.

"Savage?"

"Wh-what?"

"Shea hear you call him Savage before, but Shea know you not mean it."

"Uh, sure."

His smile seems to light up the whole room, and I couldn't look away from him if I wanted to.

"What happen?" I ask finally.

"Wonka faint, fall over. Shea sorry not catch you, hit your head. Wonka parents very mad, but Shea make them leave." he says, and looks embarrassed after mentioning how he failed to catch me.

I smile an nuzzle his collar bone. "It's okay."

We sit like that for a long time. It could be minutes, hours, I don't care, but it's bliss. I feel like I truly belong right there next to him, feeling every breath that he takes, the soothing rise and fall of his chest. After a while, he says, "So, Pie-er and Shea mates now?" I open my eyes and shift closer to him, my face half-buried in his neck. I don't feel the pain anymore.

"Yeah. I guess we are."

"That mean..." Shea starts to ask. "that mean Shea and Pie-er..." I can tell what he's getting at. "Sorry, Shea nervous..."

_He's _nervous? Hell, my face is turning bright red and it feels like i'm about to faint again. "Eh..." I can't bring myself to look up at him. Sure, I know that I'm well past due to lose it, but let's be frank - I'm scared. Really, really scared. Will it hurt? Will it hurt _bad_? I know it does for girls, but what about guys? Then again, if I'm afraid of being hurt, I might as well not have anything to do with relationships for the rest of my life. I know how this is supposed to work, its not like I've never watched TV before, but... I'm totally clueless. Well, I guess that today is a good as any day. I take a deep breath. "Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah..."

For a minute he does nothing, and then he runs a hand through my hair. I close my eyes, relishing the feel and he pulls away briefly before swinging one leg over my body so that he's straddling my waist. Slowly, he slides off his boots and gloves and gently drops them over the side of the bed. He does nothing for another moment, then asks, "Wonka really sure?" I nod, and close my eyes as he undoes the belt of my bathrobe. I shift upwards a bit so that he can pull it off for me and it joins his boots and gloves on the floor. I feel so exposed and vulnerable, laying under him in only my underwear. I feel tense and awkward, and I begin to realize just how big this moment really this. It isn't just something you do just like that, like most people make it out to be, like I used to think it was. He slides his kilt thing down (I never learned the proper term for it, but I feel that 'kilt' is more accurate than 'skirt' in this matter, at least) and I inhale sharply. Myself being naturally fine-haired, even 'down there', I can't help but feel intimidated by it.

You know, I just now realized how ugly the penis is; long and stiff when excited, with its pink, purple or brown tip that rarely matches the shaft, and all those veins... and hair... I shudder and he stops, looking at me with concern before I nod again and he continues to take off my boxers. My own looks pitiful in comparison, not being any smaller in size but my fair hair making it seem as such. He begins to position himself and I start to feel that familiar sensation; that tingling, burning sensation that just feels so good, but never fails to hurt and throb when its needs are not met. I guess I must have closed my eyes and moaned, because now I feel Shea's lips on mine, so soft and inviting, filling me with the intense urge to buck my hips, which I resist but do so painfully. He feels my tension and pulls his lips away, whispering in my ear, "Okay? Ready?" Again, I nod, this time biting my lip. I can feel his tip just barely touching me, and I just want it so bad. There is a moment where we both brace ourselves, and he then he speaks, "Not work. Get on belly." Indeed, he couldn't seem to position himself low enough, so I rolled over onto my belly and felt him shifting around some more. He takes a deep breath, and finally makes an attempt at shoving into me.

"Jesus fucking christ, son of a bitch!" I scream. It feels like someone is trying to rip me in half, and I bite the pillow in pain, tears immediately proceeding to stream down my face. And then I find out that he didn't even get the head all the way in. I look to my side and see Shea, sitting down, holding himself and biting his free arm, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. I pant some more. "Oh my god... are you okay?"

"Shea... not get... even tip in... hurt..." he manages to gasp out.

"I guess we'll have to practice before actually doing it..." I say, and think about it. Call me crazy, but just maybe we might have to actually get my ass used to it using, oh, I dunno, something considerably smaller than Shea's member? I have no idea why I didn't think about it before.

Shea notices the tears on my face and pulls me up into a sitting position, and embraces me. "Shea sorry, not know it hurt that much..." I can't help but laugh, and explain to him what I was thinking just a few seconds ago. He agrees, but without the smile. In fact, he looks sort of confused. "Practice with what?" I shrug, and tell him that we don't have to today. He nods, and I look up at him. I can tell by the way he's fidgeting that he is desperately wanting to do something with his erection, and that the burning is starting to hurt him.

"Are you okay?" I ask. He nods, but I can tell that he is lying. I think for a while, and then say, "Are you sure you don't want me to make it better?"

His eyes widen. "N-no, don't have to..."

"It's all right." He takes a deep breath, and shifts his thighs. I take this as my signal and guide him to the edge of the bed, where he sits, legs over the side, and I get down on my knees on the floor in front of him.

"What doing?" he asks, curious. He really has no idea. I get a sick feeling in my stomach (_why am i doing this oh why oh why this is so nasty_), but, regardless, I put my hands on his thighs and bend forward, taking a bit of it in my mouth. I hear him inhale sharply, and his thighs twitch under my hands. It doesn't taste near as bad as I thought it would, so I move my head down a little, the head hitting my uvula and causing me to gag. Apparently he doesn't notice. I repeat this, this time making sure the shaft comes in low, thus avoiding making me gag. After a few more times I start trying to fit more and more into my mouth, and before long I gag again, and this time almost throw up all over him. "Okay?" he asks through pants. Instead of answering I just continue. Before long his thighs start to shake and his breaths become labored and uneven. He surprises me by putting a hand on the back of my head and forcing it to go faster. I keep trying to tell myself, _'don't gag, don't gag,'_.

I don't guess I expected his climax to be so subtle. I mean, I felt something going through him, but I didn't feel a big explosion in my mouth or anything, like I had expected. It was more of a tiny spurt, followed by a few more and then he exhaled, his entire body briefly shaking.

Another thing I didn't expect: It tasted sweet. Kind of like pineapple. I pull a trashcan towards myself and proceed to throw up, expelling all of his fluids (along with everything else I've eaten today). I wipe my mouth and see that Shea had lay down, still breathing heavily with a smile upon his face. I crawl into bed with him and pull the covers over the both of us. I turn around, and he wraps his arms around my waist. I feel so warm and protected; like nothing in the world could possibly take this feeling away. The only thing that is not perfect about this moment is my still-throbbing erection, which I'm trying to ignore. Shea's right hand runs down my belly and touches it, causing me to make a startled hissing through my teeth. He doesn't even have to pump; I climax right then and there, arching my back like a cat and choking back a pleasured scream. I know that I just came all over my bed, but that can wait till tomorrow. I don't care what time it is, or what I'm supposed to be doing right now. All I want to do is lay here with Shea, and be happy.

Deep down, I still feel angry and depressed, pissed at myself, my father, my mother - everyone. I'm still to totally wrap my mind around this, and my views on Heaven and Hell and God and Angels are all getting skewered now.

I think I know I'm going to Hell for this. But I think I know that I don't give a shit right now. These thoughts can wait till tomorrow.

The biting demon within me can wait till tomorrow to take over my soul again. Tonight, I want to be happy.

And I am.

* * *

**Fun Fact: Yes, semen can taste like pineapple :D You just have to eat a lot of it!**

**Fun Fact: Yep, it is really rare for the anus to be able to handle a fully erect penis without severe pain and bleeding... UNLESS, they 'practice' beforehand. Trust me.**

_'My fun facts sure are pleasant, no? Anyway, I should really have been finishing my report in the time it took to write this, but what the hell, you only live once. The last chapter is gonna be shorter, most likely, because I'm busy working on the first chapter of my Carter origin story. Yes, the archaeologist. No, I don't have a thing for older gentlemen... *looks around nervously* Okay, let's just forget I said that and carry on.'_

_**~Tobi**  
_


	4. Acceptance

_'Finally, finally! Writer's block is a bitch, and I've had it for over a month now. Well, needless to say, I finally managed to finish the fic and believe you me, thank whatever God is listening it's finally done. I was so worried I would lose my muse entirely and never finish it, but let's just be happy that wasn't the case. I don't like how this chapter starts out. It's too melodramatic and I didn't really do my best, but it gets better towards the middle. _

_I know I sound silly saying this, but writing this fic really helped me overcome a few personal demons of mine, and I'm just glad I finished it. And I hope that you enjoy it, too.'_

_**~Tobi**

* * *

_

It feels like it's been years now. Since I officially came out, and cast off the black curtain of ignorance that my parents had been blinding me with since I was a child. Though, literally speaking it's only been about five months, I've aged - emotionally, anyway - almost beyond recognition. I've managed to retain my peppiness and hyperactivity at work, but I've been told that when away from the kitchen, I'm an entirely different being. A whole new entity in itself.

I assume I'll always bear the emotional scars left by them, and the memory of what they've said to me will never go away. But I know better than anyone that if anything ever happened to Mother and Father before I could make amends, a bit of me would die inside. I'd be forced to live with the fact that my parents died thinking I hated them hanging over my head, another burden to carry for the rest of my days. Another reason to hate myself.

Without Shea, I'd be dead right now. I wouldn't have made it through the months following my so-called 'awakening' had it not been for his compassion. And love.

I discovered that love isn't what I thought it was. It isn't a feeling that you can control, and the brutal reality is that being with Shea is, to me, the equivalent of smoking cocaine. I get this odd sort of natural high when I'm around him, and when he's gone, I crash - just like one would after a drug high. It's like the more time I spend with him, the more he just eats a hole in my heart, but I don't notice it because he just keeps filling it in with his love. But when he's not around, I can feel the gaping hole, just eating away at me.

He has this odd sort of sixth sense about him that allows him to know when when I need him the most. Back when I was contemplating taking my own life - something I hope I shall forget in my old age - he always showed up at just the right moment. But he never tried to comfort me with words; Shea wasn't raised to be a compassionate man, and I know that. He did what he did because he felt the need to protect me. He didn't feel comfortable doing it, but he did it for me. And that, I'll never forget.

Our first attempt at making love was a total disaster. needless to say. I know, I know - it's pathetic that I was still a virgin anyway, but I honestly had no idea it would be that painful. We couldn't even get the entire tip in without the both of us screaming in pain. So we practiced; first with a finger, then two, etc. until I could take him inside of me. I had figured that, being it was anal, I wouldn't feel anything, and that Shea would be the only one to enjoy it. I was so wrong.

It was like nothing I've ever felt before; the tight, hot feeling was uncomfortable at first but then he hit this certain spot and it made me go wild. I think I actually might have shocked him, how crazy with desire I got after that. He hardly couldn't leave my house without at least one romp in bed. Or the floor, whichever was more convenient at the time.

Ugh, look at me, writing trash like that. It's funny that half a year ago the very thought of that would have make me nauseous. I -

Shea knocks on the door, interrupting my thoughts, and I jump violently, knocking my ice tea over and barely getting out of the way in time to save my bathrobe from getting stained. "Come in!" I call out, scowling and setting my papers on the bed stand. He lets himself inside, and grins at me.

"Morning, Wonka. Spill?"

"Yeah." I say, my anger melting as I glance up at him standing over me. On my hands and knees now and scrubbing at the carpet with a dish towel, he gets down next to me.

"Shea do it, Wonka go sit down."

Curious, I hand him the rag and go to sit on the bed. I watch Shea as he avidly scrubs away at the carpet until he's gotten the majority of the tea out of it. He goes over and grabs a few paper towels to wipe the tea off the table; all of this he does quickly and hurriedly before sitting next to me on the bed, as if he has something to tell me. He scoots over close to me, our legs touching and gently gives me a kiss on the cheek. I flush bright red, and he smiles warmly. "Wonka feel better?"

I shift my legs to get more comfortable and reply, "Yeah. A lot better, actually." Last night had been pretty rough for me. I had received a call from my sister, Paprika.

Shea's eyes lit up. "Okay, follow! Have to show something!"

I hear what he says, but I don't move. I just keep thinking about last night.

I hadn't heard from her in years; she had refused the family trade and wanted to become a musician instead, so of course Mother and Father were not on good terms with her. At first I figured she was going to tell me off, as my brothers had months before when they heard of me from my parents. At the sound of her voice I cringed, waiting for the hateful words to come tumbling out of her mouth. But; they didn't.

"H- Hello, is Pierre at home?" she said.

I froze up, and clenched the phone tightly. "Y-yes, this is him... Paprika, is that you?"

She laughed. I immediately remembered that laugh - light, and kinda tingly. Like it belonged to someone much younger than she. How I had missed that laugh since she left. "Yeah, it's me." There was a long silence that followed, and I twirled the phone cord between my fingers. "I heard from Ma and Dad..." Another one of her peculiarities. She was the only one of us kids who dared to call Mother and Father by anything other than their respectful titles. Another silence. I could hear her delicate breathing, it was so quiet in the house right then. I don't know how long I waiting before I heard the first light sob, followed by several more, much louder ones.

"Paprika - what's wrong?" I asked, eyes wide. Did I really hurt her that bad? Was she crying over it, just like Mother had? "Oh my God... I'm so sorry... I'm sorry that it has to be like this but i can't lie to myself anymore -"

"Me too."

"..." I just stood there, not able to wrap my mind about what she had said. "W-what?"

She cried a few more minutes, and I could hear her sniffling and wiping her nose on something. "Me too," she repeated, letting out another sob. "Me too..." I still couldn't understand it, just couldn't contemplate it. And then it hit me.

"Oh my God..."

"I never knew... I-I never realized until I heard about you, Per-Per..." she said, calling me by old nickname, which I hadn't heard since I was twelve. "All the horrible relationships with the men, the mixed feelings, the booze, the drugs, it just all makes sense now... I was lying to myself, just like I assume you were. I can't believe I was so stupid..." Her sobs were starting to subside now, and she was speaking much more clearly. "I can't believe I was so stupid... I'm sorry about what Ma and Dad said, Per-Per, I'm so sorry. I know how much it hurt you. Wait, no, I guess I don't... I mean I wanted to be a musician, but this..."

I took and deep breath, and swallowed. "Paprika..." That was all I could possible get out before she started sobbing again. As she once again began to calm down, I continued, "Thank you so much..." A trail of hot tears tore a path down my face, and I blinked them away, choking back the sobs that would inevitably come. "Thank you..."

"Can - can you help me... tell them?"

I locked up again. I licked my lips nervously, and clenched the phone tighter again. "Paprika... I don't know. I don't know if Mother and Father will even talk to me at the moment, I mean, they really don't -"

She sighed, but it was really more of a growl. She took another deep breath. "You know what, Pierre, you have to stop hiding from them. You're a grown man, you can stand up to them now, you don't have to live under their oppression anymore!" After another short silence, "I'm sorry. I know you've gone through a lot of late, but... I need you for this. Please."

I could picture her bright green eyes watering. "I'm sorry, but I can't do it. I... I just can't."

"Well... bye." And she hung up. It happened so quick; I didn't expect her to just give up like that. I was more than shocked.

As I hung up the phone, my eyes immediately drifted to the floor. I felt worthless.

I snap back to the present as Shea puts an arm around me and pulls me even closer. I feel his hot breath on my neck and look down again. I don't deserve him, and I know it. I try to shift away from him, but he just pulls me in again. I give up, and lean my head against his should, closing my eyes. "I'm sorry."

Shea cocks an eyebrow and looks confused? "What for?"

"For being such a spineless good-for-nothing piece of trash."

"Spineless? But Wonka have spine, right here -" He traces a finger down the middle of my back, sending a tingling sensation throughout my body. I can't help but laugh. He always manages to make me feel better, no matter what mood I'm in. "And what 'piece of trash' mean? Wonka smell good. No one throw you away."

"You take everything so literally," I say with a laugh, and open my eyes again.

He smiles, even though it's obvious he didn't understand a word I just said. "See, feel better now. Now come, show you something!" He practically jerks me off the bed and pulls me out the door, his face still broke out in a wide grin. He starts to run and I trip, dragging my leg against the ground for a second before he pulls me back up and apologizes, blushing in embarrassment. He continues to walk, but briskly, so that I can still barely keep up with him. "Wonka like. Wada get present for." I raise my eyebrows and try to think as he keeps pulling me along. Wada? What would he be giving me anything for? I open my mouth to ask but he immediately silences me by putting a rough, callused finger to my lips. "Shh. Find out when get there. No ruin suh-prise." I smile at the way he says 'surprise' and keep my mouth shut the rest of the way there. We reach the hut and Shea stops and knocks on the door - which is really unusual, being he usually just barges right in. We wait for a few minutes, and for a moment I could just barely hear the sound of someone crying. A while after it stops, Wada opens the door, beaming at the sight of us.

"It ready... Come in..." he says. I can tell he's holding something back by the way he keeps staring at me and smiling, like he knows something I don't. Well, of course he does, it's a surprise. And besides, he just looks... different. I can't put my finger on it. "... Quiet, keep very very quiet..."

We walk inside, and I immediately sense a change in the atmosphere. There isn't a sign of smoke in the entire hut, and the entire place has been scrubbed clean. That was why Wada looked different - he was so clean. Even the weapons and shields hanging up on the wall glistened brightly. I guess I never really realized just how dirty this place was until they cleaned it.

"You cleaned house?" I ask, then realize how rude I just sounded. I begin to apologize but stop, as I see Wada and Shea both beam at each other with pride.

"That not it. Wada says he get us present. Shea not see it yet." Shea puts another arm across my shoulders and pulls me in close. "Wada say us not get it till Shea give you this," He puts his free hand into his bag and pulls something small and blue out of it.

At first my mind doesn't even let me realize what it is. Shea sucks in his breath and holds it as I stare in amazement at it, trying to convince myself that it's really there. I just can't seem to do it. I know what it is, but at the same time my brain is telling me _'No, don't let yourself be fooled! This could never happen to you!'_

I guess I don't realize how long it's been, because Shea clenches his fist with it in it and looks down. "Sorry..." he says. "Too soon?"

"No!" I blurt it out so fast that I surprise even myself. After another moment's hesitation I add, "Wait... let me see it again."

Slowly, he uncurls his fist and I see it for what it truly is. A blue feather. My vision goes hazy, and I pitch forward, closing my eyes. Shea catches me just in time and pulls me back up, shaking me a bit to bring me back to reality. "Oh my god..." is all I can say at the moment. I feel my legs go weak underneath me and I hold onto him to stabilize myself. "Oh my god..." I force myself to look up at him, and his black eyes, normally strong and determined, at this moment look weak and afraid. I put my hand in his and feel the softness of the feather between our interlocking fingers. "I want to so bad... but it's illegal. We can't," I feel the tears coming, and as one slides down my face Shea wipes it away. I had never even thought of this until this moment. We might be free to love, but not to make this commitment. I don't think I've ever felt a feeling this strong in my life - and I don't even know what feeling this is. Betrayal? It doesn't make sense, but that's what it feels like. I guess inside I was hoping this would never come up.

Shea looks at me, confused. "Ill-egal?" he says, drawing the syllables out and rolling the word around his mouth. Apparently he hasn't ever heard that word before.

"It means we can't do it. It's against the law."

Shea and Wada look at each other, and neither of them look as if they understand a word I just said. "Why?" asks Shea, looking back at me, black eyes sparkling. "Make no sense. Wonka say people get marrey-ed all time."

"Yeah, but only a man and a woman..."

"Make no sense. Take."

"But Shea I can't, it's agai-"

He stares at me for a few moments, his gaze intense. "Not matter. Be part of tribe anyway."

I carefully took the feather from him hand, too shocked to even cry. Does this count as being married? Or is it his tribe's equivalent of it, which makes it legal? To tell the truth, at this point I don't care. I look up at him, and immediately he envelopes me in a suffocating bear hug. He lets go and dashes over to the table, where there is an assortment of powders and random objects. In his excitement he knocks a bowl of black powder onto the floor and Wada growls, pointing at it and telling him to pick it up. After cleaning it up, he begins to help Shea apply all the accessories and face paint for the ceremony. Then I remember that I'm wearing a bath robe and squeal, causing both of them to jump. "Oh God, I can't get married - or bound - or whatever like this, let me just -" Shea grabs my leg from his position on the floor and stops me. He looks at Wada for a moment, considering something, and then wipes the paint off his face and removes any accessories that he had already adorned.

"Just like this," he says, standing up and taking my hands. Wada looks up at him and beams, then picks up a bowl of greenish black fluid that looks somewhat like ink. He walks back over to us and stops.

"Shea, promise protect and care for Pie-er?"

I flinch. I hadn't known it was going to be so sudden. "Yes," says Shea plainly, simply, casting a spare glance my way and smiling.

"Pie-er, promise love and stay loyal to Shea?"

The inside of my throat is dry, and my heart is beating a million miles an hour. Everything that has happened in my life was nothing but another event that led up to this very moment. I guess I've been standing here for too long, because Shea's palms are sweaty and he looks nervous. I bite my lip, and I nod.

The entire beauty of this moment melts away as Wada shoves the disgusting fluid up to my face and pours it into my open mouth. I gag and wretch, the entire contents of the bowl down my throat before I realize what's happening. Woozy and suddenly very confused, I tilt to the side and Shea catches me again, yelling at Wada for not warning me. Wada yells at him in return, again telling him to keep quiet before he throws him out. I can't help but laugh weakly, and rub my head as I stand upright. I had never imagined this would all be so sudden.

"Have present for Shea and Wonka," says Wada hurriedly. "Stay quiet," he scurries over to a bundle of furs in the corner and starts digging through them, slowly and carefully. He pulls away an animal hide and motions for us to come over to him. We oblige, gingerly stepping over to where he is and looking into the pile of furs. My heart skips a beat, and I clutch Shea in shock. Shea, who is just as surprised as me almost falls over and holds onto a chair to keep himself upright. I rub my eyes and blink a few times. It's still there. I look down and see a tiny baby boy fast asleep, his pale body nestled in between furs, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath he takes. Wada, looking immensely proud, picks him up, cradling his small body, and hands him to me. Still in shock, I let Wada lay him in my arms.

It's like holding the world in your arms; I feel powerful, almost God-like, as if I had all the power in the universe. If for some reason I had the urge to harm this delicate being, there would be nothing to stop me. I shiver. But I would never do that. Despite the power I feel, I also feel weak and helpless myself, like I shouldn't even be holding for fear he might fall and get hurt. I look down at him, so weak and defenseless. Totally dependent on me to survive. He doesn't yet know the pains of the world. So innocent and pure, like a ball of clay for me to shape and mold into something great.

I let out a soft laugh, and without warning, tears start streaming down my face. I laugh again and wipe them away, only to find out it's futile to try and stop them. I feel Shea's hands on my shoulders, and feel him breathe on my neck as he looks down at him, mouth open in wonder. I run a finger over his delicate features and ruffle his soft red hair, and wipe away another tear that lands on his face. I look up and over my shoulder at Shea, who's face is still frozen in amazement, his mouth open and eyes wide. "Do you want to hold him?"

Finally he blinks, and looks at me nervously. "Not know..." he says, gently kneading my shoulders, and diverts his gaze to the baby.

Teasing, I say, "Are you afraid?"

Offended, he immediately puffs up, sticks his chest out and makes grabby hands for him. But the moment I hand him the baby, and the infant is safely nestled in his arms, his eyes go soft. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face and he nuzzles it's face. He turns to Wada, and I swear I can see moisture forming in the corners of his eyes. He sees me watching him and quickly wipes it away, puffing up again before saying, "Wada, how?"

Wada's smile fades, but his pride does not. He exhales, and rubs his head before sitting down. "Not important. Not important..."

"Wada been gone long time three days ago," says Shea, hinting. "What do?"

"Not important..."

I try to take the baby from Shea, but he jerks away and glares at me. "Shea hold now," he says.

His jerking motion disturbed the infant, and he opens his eyes, wincing against the light and looking curiously up at him. And then, starts to cry. And then to wail. And then to scream. Shea jumps and holds him out to me. I back off, holding my hands up. "No, you wanted him."

A little bit of comforting and cradling, and miraculously, Shea had him calmed down. Wada goes back to the pile of hides and hands me a small plastic bottle. "Where did you get this?" I ask. "Where did you get... you know... the baby?"

"Not important..." he says again, looking away. "Shea stay at Wonka house now. Stay forever."

She jumps. "Not leave Wada," he says drastically, looking confused and disoriented. "Always stay here. Wonka and Shea stay here," he says, begging.

"No. Wonka house warm. Good for baby."

"Shea want -"

"Go, now!"

Shea flinches, and looks over at me. I take the animal hide the baby was previously wrapped in and cover the baby, taking Shea's hand. "We better go," I whisper into his ear, and we're out the door.

_____________

It's funny, how within the span of twenty minutes I was proposed to, engaged, married, and became a parent. As a young boy, I always pictured my wedding day to be big and beautiful, with hundreds of guests and decorations everywhere. I pictured having my child would be a long, painful, suspenseful experience. Of course, I get kind of emotional thinking that I will never experience anything of the sort. But all I can do is just be happy with what I have, and not ask for more than what I need.

We decided to name him Phillip, after one of my uncles.

Shea can't pronounce it for the life of him; it always comes out sounding like 'Pip'. I guess that's what we'll be calling him from now on.

It's been a few months now since we got him, and still we haven't a clue as to where he came from. If anyone asks, he's my sister's and we adopted him. But I don't really care, to tell the truth. I adjusted quickly to waking up in the middle of the night to feed and coddle him, but it took a huge toll on Shea the first few weeks. He got less sleep, and was snappy and argumentative for a while. A few times he even got up and went to go sleep in the hut in the middle of the night. But eventually he learned to cope, and even started to help out with Pip.

I can't imagine how hard this is going to be. It's been less than half a year, and we've received two anonymous hate letters criticizing us as parents and trying to get us to leave town. But I'm not going anywhere - this is where I met Shea, and this is where we fell in love. This is where I came out, and this is where I'm going to die. I don't care if people hate us, or treat us any different. All that matters is that I'm happen. And Shea and Pip are happy.

Shea and I would stay up for hours on end, talking about what kind of person we expected Pip to be when he grows up. I used to always think that my child would follow in my footsteps without question, but now I'm not so sure. I won't pressure him into choosing my career path, like my parents did, and I will never punish him for doing what he thinks is right. Hopefully I stick to that, because I broke the 'we will never use a pacifier' vow three days into becoming a parent. Neither of us really know what will happen. We can comfort ourselves by saying we do all we want.

I guess, if you really think about it, no one really knows anything until after it actually happens. And by then, there's no looking back. All you can do it suck it up and move on, or sit there and wallow in self-pity and wait until everything washes over. I used to be able to do that; just sit there and comfort myself and tell myself how horrible the world is, just waiting for something to save me. But I can't do that anymore. Now I have a child to care for. If I spend all my time taking care of myself, then who does he have?

Changing my ways is hard, but it's something I have to do for the sake of Pip, and even Shea. I'm not going to let this family fall apart, like mine has. All the kids hating each other, the parents unfaithful and unloving to each other... I just don't want that. And I won't let it happen.

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_'GAWD that ending sucked so bad xD More than likely I'll change it within a week or so to make it less suck-ish. Really, it's just pathetic. I just needed to get this chapter up as soon as possible being how long it's been already.  
_

_So that's it, I guess. I feel so much better finally finishing it, despite how much I hated how this chapter turned out._

_When I first started writing this, I was pretty sure that I was going to finish it, and that was that. But I have a really interesting idea that involves Pip, so there might be a sequel. I'm not making any promises, but I've been wanting to write a story about growing up with gay parents for a while, and this is the perfect chance to do it.'_

_**~ Tobi

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**Infinite thanks to all my readers, and anyone who has reviewed or commented on this. You will never know how much I needed it.**

**Thanks to Uncle Guy, who shared with me the feelings he and his husband had after adopting their lovely baby girl, Mychelle. You helped me capture Pierre's exact emotions in this moment in time, despite how horrible I was at portraying them.**

**Thanks to my dad, who supported me through my so-called 'awakening'. You comforted me when I needed it, but you never coddled me. You wanted me to be strong enough to fend for myself without abandoning me, and somehow, you pulled it off.**

**Thanks to Birdman (I'm not using you're first name, Mr. Paranoid xD. You'll deal with 'Birdman') for talking me into writing this, and yelling at me when I contemplated not finishing it.**

**Thanks to Mr. Copeland, for getting me into writing when I was fourteen, and punishing me for thinking I was horrible.  
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**Thanks to anyone and everyone who has entered my life. I don't care if I hate you; you have helped make me what I am today.

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**"SHOULD A BULLET ENTER MY BRAIN, LET THAT BULLET DESTROY EVERY CLOSET DOOR."** _Harvey Milk, first openly gay man to be elected into public office_. _Gunned down in his office along with Mayor Moscone on 27-Nov-1978, by Conservative board member Dan White._


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